What I've Loved Most
by Circle of Fire
Summary: She sings for Bethany as she can for no one else.


**A/N: I was trying to take a break from the sad stories I usually write, but I had a moment with this song while at work one day and then it just wouldn't leave me alone. Shakira's _Lo Que M__á__s. _Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>There was a piano in one of the rooms in his stolen mansion. It sat for the most part collecting dust, but every once in a while Hawke would find her way to its padded bench and lift its cover. Often she would just sit, her hands running soundless over the ivory keys. Sometimes she would play for him when words ran short, and Fenris would sit, half-empty bottle in hand and take these stolen moments to watch her face. Sometimes he would sit next to her and watch her clever fingers coax out those beautiful sounds he hadn't realized he could enjoy. But she no longer sang. Not since Bethany.<p>

He remembered the night in the Hanged Man, years and years before. They had just finished a particularly well-paying job and had gathered to celebrate and share war stories, showing off scars and fresher wounds that they could be proud of because eventually they would heal and recover from them. That Antivan bard was there, Bartolemo Rendoza, and he played for them when he wasn't joking loudly with Varric or flirting with any woman he could convince to come and sit at his side.

It had been a surreal experience, a memory he cherished because it seemed so _normal_ and therefore unlike anything he could call his own.

He'd seen her dance that night, pulled into it by the other women. She'd laughed and acted as if she didn't know how, but his Hawke was clever, could learn anything physical, and before long she was reproducing Merrill's strange elvish frolicking, Bethany's free-hearted, graceful pirouettes and even Isabela's sharp and sensual rolling hips and shimmying shoulders. He'd liked that part less, but also more.

Varric had claimed Bethany for a dance, partially for the comedy of it but more because the dwarf was fond of the girl and tonight she looked contented and happy. It triggered an avalanche of pairings as he watched from his seat, bemused, unable even to summon up a proper feeling of jealousy as Sebastian offered Hawke his hand and led her through a whirling dance both elegant and innately noble. She had thrown her head back in laughter, acknowledging her own lesser ability, terribly amused even when she tripped on her own feet and the princeling covered for her, throwing her back into a deep dip before she toppled over.

He had been more a witness than a participant in the revelry. He drank, of course, but no amount of coaxing could get him to leave his seat, sure that he would embarrass himself in every way possible. He had never been more aware that his body was meant for violence, not for these strange, graceful things they were doing that seemed to bring them all so much pleasure. For their part they did not bother him overmuch, seeming to sense the certainty of his refusal. He'd wondered if he seemed so stern to them, so incapable of bending, and if it were true.

Still, his singling out was also equally inevitable, especially as the cheap ale continued to flow and the hour grew later. Merrill and Bethany had joined hands to skip around his chair, only serving to amuse Isabela who joined in herself and invariably dragged Hawke along as well. The skipping stopped and then they were just dancing, playing follow-the-leader as one would spin or gesture with her arms and the others would mimic her.

He hadn't known what to do at first, recalling how he'd sat rigidly in his chair. Hawke's smile undid him though, her cheeks flushed, half-drunk and laughing. He had never seen her so light, so careless. He'd spent much of that time watching her, and she'd returned his gaze, bold and without hesitation as was so often her way. He'd felt honored, he supposed, that they would bother to take the time to tease him, reminding him that he was still a part of their motley little band for all that he kept to himself and did not easily join in their games.

There was a piano in the corner of the tavern, pushed against the wall. It served for the most part as yet another surface to rest a beer on, but tonight as the music wound down briefly and Bartolemo and his fellow minstrels stopped for a breather, Bethany held out her hand to her sister and pulled her over to the forgotten instrument.

He hadn't known she could play but it made sense, given what he knew of her mother and Leandra's noble upbringing. Hawke prepared for it like she was going into battle, popping her knuckles and rolling her shoulders, turning to flash a troublemaking grin at the crowd when they laughed.

She'd hammered out a series of notes, stopping to cuss when she'd inevitably hit one that sounded sour. When her sister swatted her on the shoulder he'd realized she was doing it on purpose, self-deprecating of her skill. Laughing again she bent to Bethany's request and the beautiful litany that followed he could have sworn was fit to fill a heart to bursting.

The melody was gentle, soft and longing but not sad exactly until Bethany's clear soprano joined the music to spin a song that spoke of rolling green hills and a cold wind that whispered through trees, golden fields of grain that rippled like ocean waves and the simple joys of an easier time. When Hawke's strong timbre lifted to join her sister at the end, there wasn't a dry eye in the house except for his. The applause afterward was the heartiest outpouring of emotion he'd ever seen from a rabble of drunks.

She was quick to follow the sweet, sad song with something rowdy about Marcher ale that they all knew, and the moment had passed easily from memory except for where it had lodged deep in his heart.

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><p>Tonight they are gathered together again, more because Bartolemo is there too and they wish to hear what news he carries with him. He plays now and again as he speaks, partly for their amusement and partly because he puts down the stringed instrument he carries less than Varric sets down Bianca.<p>

Hawke is silent, lost deep in thought the way she often is. The end of summer often spells her quiet, and he knows as it gets colder her mind travels back to less fortunate times and moments she misses still.

Bartolemo sees this and interrupts her reverie, asking if she won't play something with him. She stares at him uncomprehendingly and rises, moving to the stained and battered instrument almost automatically, as though she doesn't know what she's doing. The bard moves to stand over her and there is a long, silent moment in which Fenris finds himself exchanging a worried glance with Varric, both of them obviously concerned about how this will turn out. The last time this happened, Hawke had gotten up so abruptly the bench she'd been seated on crashed to the floor, and none of them had seen her again for three whole days.

It surprises them all when she starts to play.

It begins quietly, so quietly, as though she is afraid to commit fully to the piece she's chosen to play. It is a melody he didn't recognize, but Isabela does, and she curls herself into her chair and lifts a hand to cover her mouth, blinking back something that looks suspiciously like tears.

None of them know what to do when she begins to sing, her strong, low voice sounding rusty at first before it finds its strength. It has been a very long time.

Her words make no sense to his ears and suddenly he realizes she's singing in Antivan, her voice lilting on the unfamiliar sounds. Each line comes out like a promise, a question, a soft confession and he wonders what it means, though all the while he knows its purpose. She sings for Bethany as she can for no one else.

_Cuántas veces nos salvó el pudor  
>y mis ganas de siempre buscarte?<br>Pedacito de amor delirante  
>colgado de tu cuello un sábado de lluvia a las cinco de la tarde<br>Sabe dios como me cuesta dejarte  
>y te miro mientras duermes,<br>mas no voy a despertarte  
>Es que hoy se me agoto la esperanza<br>porque con lo que nos queda de nosotros  
>ya no alcanza<em>

_Eres lo que mas he querido en la vida  
>lo que mas he querido<br>Eres lo que mas he querido en la vida  
>lo que mas he querido<em>

Bartolemo begins to play and the harmony deepens, but his tenor does not join hers; the words are for her alone.

_Cuántas veces quise hacerlo bien  
>y pequé por hablar demasiado?<br>no saber dónde, cómo ni cuándo  
>Todos estos años caminando juntos<br>ahora no parecen tantos  
>sabe dios todo el amor que juramos,<br>pero hoy ya no es lo mismo, ya no vamos a engañarnos  
>Es que soy una mujer en el mundo<br>que hizo todo lo que pudo  
>no te olvides ni un segundo<em>

Bartolemo plays with tears running down his cheeks, and Isabela buries her face in her hands and weeps, something he has never seen.

_Eres lo que mas he querido en la vida  
>lo que mas he querido<br>Eres lo que mas he querido en la vida  
>lo que mas he querido<em>

Her voice hovers longingly on the last syllable, and the music softly lingers as the words fade. No one can speak as she returns to her chair and takes up her cup as though the moment before had existed entirely outside of time. She seems at ease now, almost at peace for all that she's stricken the rest of them, broken their hearts with the sincerity and the sadness in her voice. It is something, he realizes, not really meant for any of them to hear. Something that has been building up in her for a very long time.

She takes herself home soon after, wishing to be alone, and he lets her go, staying behind to ask Isabela what it all had meant.

She tells him as best she can, her voice breaking.

_How many times did reserve save us  
>And my urge to always look for you?<br>Little piece of feverish love  
>My arms thrown around your neck on a rainy Saturday at five in the afternoon<br>God knows how hard it is for me to leave you  
>And I'm watching you sleeping,<br>I will no longer wake you up  
>Today I ran out of hope<br>Because what's left of us  
>Is no longer enough<em>

_You are what I've loved most in my life  
>What I've loved most<br>You are what I've loved most in my life  
>What I've loved most<em>

_How many times have I wanted to do it well  
>And sinned by talking too much?<br>Not knowing where, how nor when  
>All those years walking side by side<br>Now don't seem to be so many  
>God knows all the love we've vowed,<br>But now it's not the same anymore, we will no longer fool ourselves  
>For I am a woman in the world<br>Who did everything she could  
>Don't forget even one second<em>

_You are what I've loved most in my life  
>What I've loved most<br>You are what I've loved most in my life  
>What I've loved most<em>


End file.
